Page 113 of The Queen of Roses

“I don’t,” she said, suddenly feeling foolish. Seeing the success of the Andalusian and the opening of the Colorado Grand, she had trusted her husband knew his own business. Although she had questioned the prudence of building the San Gabriel Mountain Lodge so soon after the Colorado Grand, he had told her that the combination of profits from his existing hotels and the continued investment from businessmen would be enough to allow him to open new establishments, which would in turn work to pay off their debts. But what happened if the businesses did not perform as well as they once had? What happened if there was a run on the banks?

“Could the banks call in his debt?” she asked.

“I suppose that depends on the terms of his loan,” said Mrs. Barnes slowly.

“And the investors?”

Her friend hesitated. “If they are owed money, yes. They could insist on immediate payment.”

Immediate payment that she suspected Guy might not be able to make if the profits from his existing hotels were already committed to the mountain lodge. And then there was the concerning matter of Mr. Earl and his payments for one thousand dollars…

Sitting in this huge house, surrounded by beautiful, expensive things, Adele felt as though the world had shifted under her feet. If what she suspected was true, Guy was no better than her father, a fool caught up in stupid, careless schemes.

Adele rose, aware that she hadn’t even had the opportunity to serve her friend tea but desperately needing to be alone.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mrs. Barnes.”

Her friend stood. “I hope my news has not brought you too much distress. Your husband is a keen businessman. I am certain he would never have done anything reckless.”

Adele gave Mrs. Barnes a tight smile. “I am certain you are right.”

chapter forty-four ADELE

When Guy came home that evening, Adele was ready. She had dressed carefully, donning a white evening dress with black piping along its scalloped edges and wide neckline. She wore no ornamentation at her throat or ears, but she instructed Maggie to weave pure white rosebuds through her hair as she had always done as an unmarried woman.

In the drawing room, she waited with Mama for Guy to arrive, thinking of all that had transpired the last few years.

Adele had entered the London marriage market with purpose. She’d known that she was expected to marry and marry well, but when she had failed at that, she had accepted that her life would have to change. Never once had she considered whether she might one day come to love Guy when agreeing to be his wife. Instead, she’d thought about what he could give her. How he could save her.

Yet her motivations in marrying had been no less transactional than Guy’s desires. She would keep his house and cement his position, and he would ensure she never had to worry about what she or her parents would live on again.

If his business decisions had jeopardized the delicate balance of their agreement, what would they be left with?

“Is that Guy?” asked Mama, breaking into Adele’s thoughts.

Adele turned her head toward the sound of a motor puttering on the drive. “I suspect it is.”

She rose, and Mama frowned. “Whatever are you doing?”

“There is something I must speak to him about before supper. I won’t be a moment,” she said.

She intercepted her husband in the entryway, his driving goggles perched on top of his head as he handed Mrs. Jarrett his hat.

“Good evening,” she said. “You are later than I expected.”

He looked to her and she saw at once the worry in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. He knew about the run, and it spelled bad news for him. The question was just how bad.

“I’ll take a tray in my study, Mrs. Jarrett,” he said, peeling off the long leather duster he wore while driving even the short distance from the Gables to his office at the Andalusian.

Adele did not miss how Mrs. Jarrett’s eyes flicked over to catch hers. She gave the housekeeper a tiny nod.

“Very well, sir,” said Mrs. Jarrett.

“Give my apologies to your mother, Adele. I have work to do,” he said, and then he began the slow trudge upstairs.

Adele stood in the entryway, counting the ticks of the grandfather clock. When she reached one hundred, she began to climb the stairs to follow him.

She trailed her hand over the banister—carved mahogany so finely joined that it was almost impossible to see where one piece of wood ended and the next began. As she ascended, she passed huge oil canvases of Dutch landscapes and ruined Scottish castles, battles being waged, and a regal woman with a white-powdered wig posing with a rose pinched between her thumb and forefinger. Under Adele’s feet was a fine runner of wool and silk that caught the light and shimmered slightly.